


"7393"

by Charona



Category: Motorcycling RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: Affairs, Alternate Universe - Chefs, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Businessmen, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Lovers, First Kiss, Hidden Affairs, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Marc's a chef, Maybe - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Restaurants, Rivalry, Wine, alex is so done
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:55:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22335898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charona/pseuds/Charona
Summary: Marc and Alex Marquez are famous for leading Spain’s most prestigious restaurant, the “7393”, as well as for their commitment to exquisite haut cuisine, their adamant perfection and especially close relationship.Things change, when the well-known food critique Jorge Lorenzo catches award-winning cook Marc on the wrong foot and threatens his outstanding reputations as a chef.To make things even worse, the competing restaurant “Rossi e Marini” opens up just across the street – led by no other than the eponymous Italian star gourmets Valentino and Luca. Alex welcomes the fresh breeze of rivalry and feels drawn to the younger sommelier, whereas Marc, the stubborn grit he is, and Valentino, fed up with the young “bad boy of the cuisine”, soon declare war – for their business, their brothers and their own hearts.
Relationships: Luca Marini/Alex Marquez, Marc Marquez/???
Comments: 33
Kudos: 29





	1. Table 9(9)

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, welcome to the newest abyss my brain plunged me into, a.k.a. my first (and most likely last) AU^^  
> It all started with a picture of Marc in a chef’s jacket. The rest is (hi)story – this story. 
> 
> Thanks to **lily_katie** for all her awesomeness and brainstorming. ILY! 
> 
> The summery more or less says it all, I hope you guys have fun reading this – it was _wild_ writing this.

A clipboard in his hands and the cap of his pen between his teeth, Marc inspects the inventory and points at one of the apprentices, who instantly startles. Marc rolls his eyes and covers the pen with the cap.  
“You. Sort out the onions and don’t store them in the plastic bags, they’ll rot. Jesus, does to academy teach them nothing anymore?”  
Dani shrugs and keeps stirring the sauce in his beloved _Cuivre de France_ pot. The young apprentice, a lanky, tall kid from Lleida scurries past Marc and disappears into the huge cold store.  
“You.” Marc points at the next girl, who stares at him in a mixture of utter adoration and gutting fear. “I need oranges. A lot of oranges. Gather, peel, juice and sweeten them. In that order, got it?”  
The small blonde hurries away. Marc squints at the rest of them and turns to his sous chef.  
“You got any need for the rest of them?”  
“They’re your workers.”  
“Yeah, and I’m already sick of them. Look for work, but don’t break anything, stay away from the meat, don’t burn anything and most of all-“ Marc pulls one of the boys out of the way as Alex scurries past with a huge tray filled with freshly polished champagne flutes. “Don’t get in the way.”  
The boy turns beetroot, as he catches his balance and Marc sighs in defeat.  
“Just stand over there and be quiet.”

When he returns to his favourite spot behind the counter and checks on his buttermilk duck in the oven, Dani nudges his side.  
“What?”  
Marc looks at his long-time friend and closest colleague. Dani bestows him with one of his rare smiles.  
“They’re nervous. Give them a break.”  
“I didn’t get any breaks during my internship with you!” Marc’s mocked outrage makes Dani laugh for real this time and his dark eyes spark, while he never lifts his gaze from the wine sauce.  
“Yeah, and repeating your teacher’s behaviour has always been your trademark, sure…”  
“Oh, shut up!”  
Marc chuckles and wipes his hands at the kitchen towel draped over his shoulder. 

It’s true, though, because after all the years of hard work and studying in Paris, Marc Marquez has opened up the “7393” for the simple purpose of breaking common rules of the strict haute cuisine. It took him a while to establish the restaurant with the stern (especially French) press, but the success proved he’s right and by now the establishment is talked about to be the most famous restaurant in Spain, if not Europe. Marc has worked at some of the most exquisite places around the globe, was sous chef in the “El Buli” and when the time was right, he took his closest friend and mentor Dani Pedrosa and opened up the “7393” with his brother and his best friend.  
There was a lot of head-shaking and frowning, when the young Marquez brothers and a well-known chef, who declined to take over the direction of the "El Buli” in order to follow a young and rebellious Catalan back to Spain, declared the opening of their own place.  
_Well, we silenced them in style_ , Marc thinks and smirks to himself while picking some rosemary and scattering it into the pot. _Just like everyone else._

Marc re-enters the present with a shake of his head and points at the chocolate bars lining the work top. “These need to be melted, filled with tea and frozen. I want the liquid nitrogen to be ready by five. The peas have to be cut and decorated.”  
“On my way.”  
Dani leaves his area and Marc is glad to have at least one professional around. A glance over his shoulder proves that most of the apprentices from the Barcelona culinary school stare at him in complete awe or utter terror.  
_You could think, I’m a green cow…_

Alex re-enters the kitchen, without the tray but a smug grin this time. He whacks Marc’s ass while passing him by and nods at the group of students.  
“You’ve got a bunch of admirers here. Did someone already gather the courage to ask you for an autograph?”  
“Pff, please, they’re all yours.”  
Alex laughs and steps aside as a cook presses past him with a huge tank of nitrogen in his arms.  
“I should fake your writing and sell the autographs. I’d be a rich man in an instant.”  
“Be my guest.” Marc mutters and then he grins, when the joke dawns on him and he already sees Alex dancing in his dress shoes. “No, no, no, no, we’re not in a Musical here, Alex, get out!” He’s met by loud laughter and his brother snapping his fingers.  
“God, Alex, there’s no time for that! Go and sort out the wines!”  
“Been there, done that. Come on, Marc, I know, you want it!”  
And the apprentices are witnesses to the typical although less frequently brotherly chaos, when Marc drags Alex out of the kitchen by the hem of his white shirt and comes back wiping his hands and a wide grin tugging at his lips, while the young sommelier yelps and laughs simultaneously.  
“Alright. We’ve got two hours until the first guests arrive – real guests –, chop-chop!” 

Alex soon has his hands full with entering guests, presenting wines and coordinating his staff at the bar. He gestures a waiter to clean up a table, before skipping through his notebook again.  
The “7393” was built from an old auction house and you can tell by the high ceiling, its gallery lined by iron-cast balustrades and wooden panels cladding the walls. They’ve kept the authenticity of a noble and elegant building of a century long gone by adding a wooden bar area with heavy leather stools and dark tables. It spreads the atmosphere of a gentlemen’s club from the late thirties without the dusted aristocracy, because Alex convinced Marc to use modern, indirect light, keep the industrial curtain rails and windowsills and hang up some fitting painting by Pablo Palazuelo. The long floor-boards are still the original ones from the fifteenth century and the polished mahogany reflects the soft light from leaf-shaped lamps all around to make it look like liquid copper.

The restaurant itself is small with less than thirty white-clothed and candle-lit tables on the main floor and up on the gallery and it exudes that kind of exclusivity that draws you to it instead of makes you feel repelled by it. Warmth from the lantern-shaped wall lightning draws soft shadows across the suspended ceiling. 

Alex lets his eyes wander over the tables with their shiny silverware and sparkling crystal glasses and nods in contentment.  
Aleix behind the bar serves the first post-dinner whiskies and brandies, his brother just strikes up the third sonnet of the evening and Julia presents a fresh bottle of champagne from the bottle cooler to the national bank’s president. 

Alex frowns, when he sees another guest arrive through the stained glass window of the heavy wooden front door. A quick check with his precious notebook confirms his doubt. They’re once again sold out for the night and Alex watches the stranger approach the front desk with worry.  
“Welcome to the “7393”, Senor, how may I help you?”  
He meets stern green, when the man takes off his coat without any words and without moving his eyes from Alex’s he points at one of the tables – Senor Hernandez’ table, a famous investor, who owns half of Spain’s sports teams and is currently chatting with Aleix over a sherry.  
“I’d like to dine here. The steak, medium-rare, and a glass of red wine. Dry. Italian.”  
“I-“  
Alex watches in horror, as the man takes a seat in such a nonchalant way, that scratches the border of arrogance.  
“I’m really sorry, Senor, but this table is currently taken. Would it be possible for you to return tomorrow, I’ll gladly note your reservation right away?”  
“No.” The green eyes have lost all their warmth and look like moss-covered steel, sharpness flashing underneath velvet. “I’m already seated, I’d like to be served now. And bring me a bottle of water, please. Soda, not from the tap.”  
_I’ve never served tap water in my life._  
Alex bites back the comments, takes the rest of the order and makes his way back to the kitchen. 

“Steak, MR, for table 9, and another dessert for Senora Martinez, Dani, she loves your soufflé and she ordered me personally to let you know.” Dani grins proudly at the old lawyer’s widow compliments and turns towards the artfully fileted fruits again. “And Marc? Make that steak fast and make it good. He’s a pain in the ass.”  
He notices Marc’s smirk, before a darting flame from his wrought-iron pan makes him disappear behind a wall of orange.  
“Don’t worry about it, we can handle the assholes. What we can’t handle are late aperitifs. Take the flutes and berries with you.”  
“Yes, chef.”

Alex loves working with Marc. He loves every minute of their seemingly effortless connection threading into stressful business, as if it was a perfectly winded up clock. It’s as easy as riding a bike or walking or breathing and their co-workers often state how difficult it is to tell the brothers apart, despite Alex being almost seven inches taller and seeming so much younger with his ruffled hair, the wide brown eyes and his lanky appearance – the suit he wears on a daily basis seems to enhance his youth instead of gifting him with some severity. Marc on the other hand is a rather short whirlwind full of untamed energy and creative charisma. He’s handsome to an extend that makes him look like the epitome of Ancient Greek’s ideal of beauty at times, when he’s staring into the oven with dark eyes full of concentration and his sharp jawbones and full lips illuminated by the harsh kitchen light. The white chef’s jacket underlines his tanned skin and messy black curls, which he keeps shorter now that he reached his mid-twenties.  
Sometimes Alex misses Marc’s smile, that glow that lights up an entire room, if his brother chooses to and makes him look like a joyous teenager. It’s become rare with the hard work, the late hours and the pressure of maintaining the highest standards of modern haute cuisine.  
_Maybe we should take a break_ , Alex can’t help thinking half an hour later after he’s helped the heavily perfumed Senora Martinez into her fur-coat smelling of camphor and cats and gets called to table 9 again.  
“Yes, Senor? Is something wrong with your steak?” _Again?!_  
“Yes and it’s the second one. The first one was terribly cold” _It was still steaming when I returned it to Dani…_ “and this one… it’s rarely cooked. And I mean _rarely_!” He presses his fork into the tender meat and Alex’s stomach rumbles at the perfectly gathering juices underneath the pink beef. “If I press a little harder, it might gallop from the plate, don’t you think?”  
_No, actually, I don’t._  
“I’m really sorry, Senor, did I make a mistake with your order? I thought, it was a medium-rare entrecote?”  
He hears the puff of annoyance from the man and without further ado, Alex takes away the plate.  
_The costumer is king._ He pushes past his father, who lifts his eyebrows and knows better than to say anything and holds open the kitchen door. _Even if he is more a Joffrey Baratheon than a… whoever even is a good king, really._

“Marc? Table 9.”  
“ _Again?!_ ”  
Alex almost smirked at his brother voicing his exact thought, if he wouldn’t be forced to throw away a perfectly fine dry-aged steak worth over 200 Euros.  
“Yes, again. Says, he’s afraid it might graze the table decoration, if it gets poked awake.”  
“Bullshit.” Marc huffs and circles the long kitchen island to inspect the plate. “Literally. Bullshit.” He presses against the crust and shakes his head. “This steak is perfect. And you know why? Because I cooked it myself. And I’ve been cooking the perfect steak since I was ten. I know, how to make a _god damn_ steak!”  
Alex sees the flash of anger lighting _that spark_ behind his brother’s eyes and shakes his head rapidly.  
“No, Marc, don’t do it. I mean it, don’t.”  
But Marc has already made that decision and Alex watches his brother shake out the kitchen towel so it flicks like a whip and crouch down in front of the oven.  
“Marc…”  
“He doesn’t want it medium-rare. He doesn’t want it medium. He wants it like this.”

And Alex is reduced to a powerless bystander, as Marc gets up with a filled towel, barges through the kitchen door into the guest room and stomps over to table 9.  
The slim man with his intense eyes and almost bored features yelps, as he notices Marc – and screams, when Marc lifts the towel and lets crumbs of coal rain down on the plate, the floor and the man’s lap.  
“You may not know, what a medium-rare steak looks like, but I certainly do, Senor. So here is the overcooked piece of coal you actually asked for.”  
“ARE YOU CRAZY?!”  
The man jumps to his feet, the wine bottle clatters to the floor and other guests gasp in shock at the commotion.  
“You’ll regret that, Marquez!”  
It’s in that second, Marc takes a proper look at the stranger and hisses as the realisation burns its way through his mind. The veil of anger lifts itself and Marc’s mouth drops open.  
“YOU?!”  
The other one doesn’t offer him the opportunity to say anything more, but steps out of the chaos of broken class and black pieces of coal. His finger points at Marc’s chest and his eyes spit green fire.  
“I’m going to tear this whole place down!” he throws a card onto the tabletop, grabs his jacket and storms towards the door.  
The door vibrates in its hinges and Marc covers his mouth with stained fingers.  
“Marc?” Julia spreads his hands in a careful gesture as if to not scare his son into doing something rash – again.  
“Fuck.” Alex curses and ignoring all the guests staring daggers into his back, he picks up the card from the table, a puddle of dark red wine tinted its edges, but it’s still readable. 

**“Jorge Lorenzo.**  
**Pulitzer Prize journalist.**  
**Restaurant critic.”**

“Marc?”  
Marc’s shoulders drop and he turns around – the coal crunching beneath his shoes sounds like a comical statement from off-stage.  
“We’re doomed.”


	2. the tuna-thief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the positive feedback on the first chapter, this was a great push for me to write even faster. So here we go.
> 
> I hope, you like this one.

Whenever Marc Marquez is confronted with any kind of trouble, from urgent meetings with the publishers of his cookbook series, nagging grandparents or a catastrophically delayed meat delivery, he takes it on like a true Spaniard. He grabs it by its horns and installs order again – cursing and after a coffee break to sort out his strategy. This time it’s different, though, because as soon as the loud bang of the door falling shut got lost against the high ceiling of the “7393”, Marc functioned on autopilot. He apologized to the guests with an obligatory smile, ordered Aleix to clean up the mess and disappeared into the kitchen. Alex stared at his brother’s back and then at Dani, who’s a statue of shock and worry in the kitchen door. 

Alex has never seen Marc react like that to anyone or anything and it worries him deeply. 

The next days end up to be a test on all of their nerves. Every morning Alex skims through the newspaper, but at least the normal press hasn’t mentioned the incident yet. _Good thing, our cliental loves us that much to not add fuel to the flame for a sensational headline._ He nods at the man at the kiosk and leaves “La rambla” with a bag of still warm baked goods underneath his arm. _Well, they probably don’t need the money, either…_

He unlocks the door to their shared apartment loft and starts to set the breakfast table, when Marc enters the large-dimensioned kitchen.  
Alex takes one look at his brother and decides that this has to stop.  
“Have you even slept at all?”  
“When?” Raspy voice, shadows gouged underneath his eyes, hair’s a mess.  
“Last night?”  
“No…” he pours coffee into a large mug and empties half of it in huge gulps, before filling it up again. “I don’t think so.”  
Alex raises his eyebrows, but Marc cuts him off with a decisive wave of his arm.  
“Leave it, Alex. There’s nothing we can do. He’ll write that article and it will bring us down.”  
“You don’t know that… Have you tried to call him?”  
It’s met by a clenched jaw and Alex sighs. “Of course you haven’t. What happened between you two?”  
“Nothing.”  
“Marc…”  
“No, Alex. I’m going to work now. I mean… as long as I still have work, I’ll be in my kitchen, looking after my guests. Meet me there later.”

With that he grabs his keys and leaves the apartment, in sweatpants and without a coat, unshaved and still cradling the coffee cup. 

Alex leans against the counter and stares at the polished marble, before fumbling for his phone.

“Dani?”  
_"He’s still not better, is he?”_  
“He’s a mess…”  
_”It’s his baby… this restaurant is his baby, of course he’s worried._  
Alex shakes his head and he can almost hear Dani do the same in his apartment down by the beach. He thinks, he hears seagulls screeching through the line.  
“No, _I’m_ worried. Mama and Papa are worried. You and Aleix are worried. Pol seems like he hasn’t got the severity of it all yet, but he’s threatened to kill everyone who tries to take the piano away. Marc is…” He doesn’t have the words to describe Marc’s behaviour and doesn’t even try to. He’s tired to the bone.  
_”You won’t let that happen, will you?_  
Alex licks his lips and suppresses a sniffle, when Dani’s low voice sinks in. _Why do people always come to me for answers?!_  
“No. No, Dani, I won’t ever that happen.”  
There’s a small pause and Dani audibly re-enters his flat through the balcony door, which squeals in its hinges as usually. Alex loves his friend’s old apartment, but ever since he stumbled against the glass door drunkenly, he’s a bit taken aback when it comes to Dani’s lifestyle choices.  
_“How are we coping so far? Did Roser take a look into the books?”_  
“You mean, how long can we continue like this?”  
_”The restaurant was almost empty yesterday… so, yes. I’m asking you, how our financial situation looks like.”_

Alex sits down on one of the barstools lining the kitchen island and wipes his forehead.  
“Mama’s worried, of course. But so far we’re okay. We still got backups, savings, stuff like that. Mama explained it, but I zoned out while watching Marc throwing plates at the wall until Mama told him to stop wasting said savings...”  
Dani hisses at the idea of that and Alex huffs. _Yeah, exactly._  
“The oven conking out last year was bad and the fridge having its annual breakdown this spring didn’t help, of course, but we coped with it. Marc doesn’t throw it out and me neither.”  
_”Yeah, I know. Just coffee and tickets for Barcelona matches.”_  
“We both know, we don’t pay for the tickets, since we hosted ter Stegen’s wedding, right?”  
_”What do you mean, you don’t pay?! Am I the only one paying for them?!”_  
Something clonks in the background and Dani curses, which makes Alex giggle until Dani joins in.  
“Things, I didn’t expect when I was 16: jokes with Dani Pedrosa.”  
_”Things, I didn’t expect ever to happen: jokes about money with Alex Marquez.”_  
“True that…”  
The pause now is more solemn and heavier, while Alex listens to Dani’s coffee machine gurgling in the background. The ancient Gaggia, Dani guards like gold.  
Alex picks at the chocolate filled puff pastry on the counter.  
“I bet, by now you regret not taking that job at the “El Buli”.”  
Dani grunts and it makes Alex smirk. Marc would be able to translate that sound, but Alex doesn’t know Dani well enough to be entirely sure. For him, Dani sometimes still is _Dani Pedrosa, award-winning chef and mentor_ , rather than _Dani, the friend and owner of dangerous balcony doors and old Italian coffee machines_  
“Sometimes I wonder, why you took the risk and followed Marc back to Spain.”  
The answer is abrupt and strangely curt.  
_”So did you.”_  
“Yeah, but he’s my brother. I’m obliged to follow him. You could have opened up your own place, become our rival.”  
_”No… no, that wasn’t an option. Ever… It’s… it’s Marc, you know?”_  
Alex isn’t sure, he does and frowns deeply in thought, as Dani’s looking for words.  
_”I don’t know, he’s… he’s a genius. And a joy to work with.”_  
Alex knows, if he just keeps waiting, Dani might tell him.  
_”Now stop interrogating me before I had my first coffee, Marquez, that’s mean!”_  
It’s accompanied by a warm laugh and Alex smirks, before he nods and bites his lip.  
_“Alright, Maestro. Let’s postpone this conversation to later, when I’m fully awake. I’ll see you around ten?”_  
“Marc’s already there. See you later.”

Alex ends the call and frowns at the screen for another moment before pocketing the phone again and facing his breakfast.  
Dani really does like Marc… Maybe it’s because Marc is great to work with. Maybe because, it’s always _with_. Not _for_.  
Alex shakes his head and takes a bite from the cold pastry, before turning towards his preselection of wines for the evening. _French or German to accompany the duck?_

The sun starts to rise by the time Marc tears his eyes away from the black phone screen in his hands. He blinks and wipes the tears of tiredness and exhaustion out of the corners of his eyes with a muffled moan. He stares out of the window for a moment and contemplates whether he should get up at all today. It’s like the collision with Jorge Lorenzo drained him of all his energy, as if the piercing green eyes tore a hole into his mind, his whole being, and all his willpower and determination seeped through the fissure into the nightly air of Barcelona. Marc tries to catch what is left of both with all his might, but it slips from his fingers.  
He’s cut himself yesterday. Not severely, just a tiny cut in his index finger, when one of his favourite Santoku knives slipped through a fish’s spine and through his own skin. Marc has stared at the tiny blood droplet covering the cut in a mixture of childish astonishment and strange apathy, before Dani wrapped the finger in kitchen towels and guided him towards the sink.  
“You’re bleeding. Marc?”  
“This hasn’t happened in years.”  
And it was true and it still is. Marc hasn’t cut himself in the kitchen since he was a teenager. He once slit his little finger open pretty badly, as Dani has watched his every move while fileting a pig knuckle – out of nervousness and because he was _Dani Pedrosa_. Since then the only injuries he collected not unlike his awards were minor burns, because he was too stubborn to use two potholders, when getting a heavy roast out of the oven.

Marc stares at his finger in disgust. It’s the unneeded proof of how much Jorge gets under his skin – still.  
_Alex probably thinks, we had a pretty nasty breakup or something._  
He cuts off the thought and ends his third sleepless night with a frustrating groan, before peeling the duvet off his naked torso and shuffling towards the bathroom. 

Half an hour later Marc decides to take a detour to the restaurant and pick up the fish for today’s menu himself. He texts his dad, so he won’t drive to the market in vain and strolls down the beach.  
He contemplates whether he should call Dani and cats away the idea after a moment.  
_I’m a big boy, I can look after my own business for half a day._  
How wrong that should turn out to be…

The fish market of Barcelona has always been one of Marc’s favourite spots in the city. The moored cutters look like pearls on a string, as they lay deck-to-deck alongside the stony coast-road. Marc’s always enjoyed visiting the booths, listening to the fishermen and merchants bargain and yell at each other and the chefs pick out the most exquisite pieces of fat and pink tuna filets. As a kid he loved watching the fish swim circles in their buckets and tanks and always believed the squids were waving at him.  
By now a certain kind of respect towards the fishermen for their heavy work got added to his list. Although the childish fascination is still the same, as he walks through the small aisles between the booths, all clad in tarps with differently coloured stripes. White and blue, yellow and red.  
The smell of salt and fresh fish is ever-present and Marc’s stomach rumbles.  
Maria offers him a freshly opened oyster, as she has done since he was a little boy and his father had carried him around on his shoulders, peeking into fish stews and algae-tanks.  
“There you go, Marc, ¡Provecho! I Imagine, you haven’t had breakfast yet. You look so skinny! How’s business?”  
Maria is a massy woman in her late fifties, her weather-beaten face is always red and she owns the sharpest knives (and the stingiest tongue) in town.  
“I’m fine, Maria. Thanks for the oyster.”  
“You want some? The freshest and best, I’ve ever had.”  
Marc, who’s already made a few steps down the road, laughs back at her and licks lemon juice from his finger.  
“You’ve said that every day for as long as I can remember!”  
“Because it’s the truth, son, God knows, I’m not a liar!” she yells and laughs whole-heartedly, when Marc screams back. “Oh, hell, don’t get God involved. See you around!”  
She threatens him with her knife jokingly, before turning towards her work again and splitting open oysters with mind-bogglingly fast slices.

Marc turns left and nods at the old fisherman noisily discussing with his son, before he sees and recognises the young chef. He turns pale underneath all the wrinkles and Marc musters his most charming grin.  
“Antonio, what have you got for me today?”  
“Senor Marc, hello.” There is an awkward pause and a crab starts climbing out of its bucket before the old fisherman plunges it back in with such a hefty nudge, water splatters everywhere. Marc cocks his head.  
“I came to pick up my delivery. Tuna, clams, the usual. It’s fish-day.”  
Antonio steps from one foot onto the other and wipes his scarred fingers at the green apron around his bony upper body.  
“Well, Senor Marc, there’s been a difficulty with the boat.”  
“Antonio, you haven’t had a problem with the _San Salvador_ in 30 years. I ordered five tunas and eighteen breams. Ten kilos of clams.” Marc tries to banish the panic from his voice and fails. “Where are my fish?”  
“I’m really sorry, kid. It’s been a busy morning and you’re later than usual.” _So not true._  
Marc looks at the left-overs. Eel, crab, clams, black soles and a very fat tuna filet in a blue bucket filled with ice.  
The second he reaches for the bucket a slim hand appears in his field of vision, snatches the bucket and lifts it in a swift movement.  
Marc can’t bite back the growl and eyes the stranger in front of him.  
“Scusi! Ciao, Antonio, I’ll take the tuna here and five pounds of clams, please.”  
_“Excuse you?!”_ Marc hisses. “This is my tuna! Give it back.”  
He meets the pair of bluest eyes, he’s ever seen, when the man, obviously an Italian (as by the measure of his pronunciation and general arrogance), looks at him and smiles the most disarming smile, Marc has ever seen. It makes him open and close his mouth like a fish out of water. He feels like the suffocating catfish on Antonio’s cutting board, as the Spaniard watches the stand-off with great interest.  
The Italian’s smirk gets even more arrogant as he cocks his head and light brunette curls get ruffled by a fresh breeze.  
“Sorry, I didn’t realise, it belonged to anyone, as it just stood there unattended.”  
“Una- _what_?! I was just reaching for it.”  
“Yeah, but you didn’t touch it, did you? I did. So it’s my tuna, since I just paid for it.”  
He hands Antonio a hundred Euro note and winks at the old fisherman.  
“Keep the change. Those clams smell amazing.”  
Marc’s mouth still hangs open and his tongue presses drily against his palate, when the Italian clicks his tongue and nods at him.  
“Gracias. Ciao, Bambino.”  
“Bamb…”  
Marc’s turned into a pillar of salt, as he stares at the skinny back in a white shirt meander through the hectic crowd of shoppers and fishermen alike.  
“Can you believe that?”  
He turns towards Antonio and receives just a half-hearted “mh?”, as he’s already counting his tip.  
Marc rolls his eyes, picks out some leftovers to at least manage a soup for tonight’s menu and leaves the fish market with an unsatisfied grumbling. 

He carries his few pickings all the way back to the restaurant, for it’s the only workout he gets these days anyway. 

As soon as he enters the street in the old town of Barcelona he stops still and nearly gets run over by a bike courier.  
He mutters an apology and frowns at the construction zone in front of him.  
A huge truck blocks both lanes and a crane carries loads of building material through the open windows of the house opposite the “7393”. Marc ducks away into the small side alley to avoid the workers spreading dirt and dust over his expensive (and hardly fought) fish.  
He opens the back door and enters his restaurant. _Like a thief in the night… unbelievable._

He meets Alex in the guest room. They’re the first ones in, as usual.  
Marc nods at him in a greeting and deposits the heavy box onto the counter with a groan.  
“What is going on outside? What’s with the roadwork?”  
Alex shrugs and frowns at the box.  
“That’s… a little less fish than expected.”  
“Don’t remind me. Antonio said, the _San Salvador_ had some troubles last night. A guy snatched the last tuna from right underneath my nose.”  
Alex huffs sarcastically and skims through the mail. He’s already wearing black trousers and white shirt, but hasn’t put on the bow tie yet and the jacket’s draped around the back of one of the heavy chairs.  
“No wonder. That ship is older than abuelo Alentà.”  
“True…”  
A loud hammering noise from outside cuts him off and Marc scrunches his nose. Alex shrugs and points at the beeping truck navigating along the sidewalk.  
“It’s not roadwork, by the way, it’s a move. We’re getting new neighbours.”  
“And they’re opening up a circus or what?”  
Alex takes a deep breath and points at the flyer, he discarded together with the rest of today’s mail. Marc turns the piece of paper around.  
“ **“Rossi e Marini” – exquisite and original Italian culinary.** ” He reads aloud and stops, when he sees the picture of two men, apparently the eponymous owners on the bottom of the paper. They’re both good looking, one of them tall and blond, the other one smaller, lean to almost skinny with dishevelled brunette curls and piercing blue eyes. 

Alex watches in irritation, as Marc’s mouth drops open.  
“Wait a second. That can’t- That’s him!”  
“That’s who?”  
“It’s the tuna-thief!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got tumblr, too. **charonaraccoon**. Come visit me :D


	3. Many meetings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’M BACK!  
> Hallelujah, sing and praise the deities of inspiration, I’ve actually written something again and… well, shit’s going down :D  
> Title from lotr, you’ll get that joke in the end. 
> 
> Have fun, dears!

**“Hey, I don’t know, whether you deleted my number or not… I’d understand, if you did, though. I just wanted to ask you, if we could meet and talk this over.”**  
**“I know, who you are, although you forgot to add your name, as usual. The time gave it away… it’s past 3 a.m., man, don’t tell me your sleeping habits are still as fucked up as they’ve been back then…”**  
**“I know, I can’t sleep. And you remember...”**

There’s a pause and he taps the back of his phone in a frantic rhythm. 

**“IF I agree on meeting you, are you going to apologize?”**  
**“What for?”**  
**“Actually I want two: For waking me up in the middle of the night and for that assault last week!”**  
**“Okay.”**  
**“I’ll call you, when I’m back from Paris, give me a week or two.”**

Another pause, the rhythm gains speed.  
**“That article…?”**  
**“I’ve just put it on hold.”**

“So what are we going to do now?”  
It’s the question of questions, the one and only, the Holy Grail of wisdom – and Marc has no idea. 

It’s two days later, they’re sitting in a loose circle in the kitchen and he even allowed Alex to sit on the shiny work top – a sure sign how little he cares about such earthly business at the moment.  
Pol sits cross legged on the floor, Aleix close by, Dani and his parents occupy the small wooden table they use for coffee breaks and Marc himself wanders back and forth through his workspace. 

_So what are we going to do now?_

“First of all, I’m going to fix the thing with Jorge.” He says and wipes his cheeks. “I’ve texted him yesterday and we’ll meet up, as soon as he’s back from Paris.” Alex sends him an irritated look and Marc flinches. _Yeah, sorry, Bro_ , he thinks and smiles apologetically. _That wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have before my first coffee this morning_.

“Until then it’s more or less business as usual. As long as the article isn’t published, we’ve got almost nothing to fear.”  
“Antonio?”  
Marc is surprised to hear the name out of Aleix’s mouth, but the barman has always been very observing and he loves this restaurant almost as much as Marc does.  
They’ve been classmates for years and shared an interest for culinary for as long as they can both remember. Often, Aleix would visit the Marquez’s house with loads of bottles and fruits and ice bags in tow, which left a trail of water droplets down the street, gorged by a Southern-Spanish summer’s sun.  
Roser bestows him with a kind smile and Marc nods.  
“I called him. We figured something out. He’s very sorry for the missing fish and I got a proper discount on our next deliveries.”  
Approving murmur rises and ebbs away in the lofty kitchen. 

“So, on to the next topic. The Italians. What are we going to do about them?”  
Before Marc can say anything, Alex clicks his tongue and shrugs.  
“What about them? They’re gastronomes and cooks just like we are. We’ll see how it goes. Maybe it will spice things up a little.”  
“Spi-“ Marc frowns and keeps staring at his brother as if he’d grown a second nose. “You do realise, who we’re dealing with here, right? And what they’ve done to Agostini’s?”  
He can see the clogs in Alex’s head turn until they click into place.  
“Ago is _ancient_ , Marc! They surely didn’t drive him out of business, he just retired due to old age and considerable wealth…”  
“You don’t know that!”  
Their employees follow the back and forth as if it were the most interesting tennis match they’ve ever witnessed.  
“Neither do you know of them being responsible for anything. Shouldn’t the motto be ‘innocent till proven guilty’?”  
“So you are picking their side, already?!”  
Marc’s eyes spit black fire, which Alex extinguishes with a low snort.  
“Since when are there sides to pick in the first place?! Marc, calm down…”  
He’s said that multiple times over the last few days and just now, when his older brother’s anger seems to have reached a high point, he drops his arms to his sides and shrugs – to everyone’s surprise.  
“Okay, yeah, sorry.”  
Silence fills the kitchen for a while and it’s their father breaking it with a soft exhale.  
“Any other ideas?”

Marc nods in Pol’s direction, who stares at him with big eyes. If he had antennas, he’d turn them towards Marc in an instant.  
“Can you make sure we get advertisements everywhere relevant? For the next possible issue, please.”  
“Sure thing, boss. I may be a great and passionate eater, but I’m rather useless as a cook. I’ll see to it right away.”  
“Thanks, man.”  
Marc sees Dani’s frown and passes it over on purpose.  
“Dani and I will finish the menu for the upcoming season. More Tapas, less fish. Autumn is perfect for that and we’ll profit from the tourists making the most out of the last warm days.”  
Universal nodding and a few cautious smiles. Marc grins at his team and he actually does mean it. Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation or general giddiness nagging at him, but he bestows everyone with a wide smile.  
“Thank you, guys. I mean it, thank you for being here. I don’t know, what I would do without you all, you keep this business running right now and I love you for it.”  
Pol blushes, Aleix fidgets with a kitchen towel to keep his hands busy, his parents share a secretive grin, which says _We made that one and he turned out great_ , and Alex lifts his chin in a proud motion.  
Dani is the only one to add anything to it. He locks eyes with him and Dani’s whole posture is filled with confidence and strength.  
“Always, Marc.”  
_Always and I love you, too._

They discuss the last details and an hour later Marc dissolves their gathering with a wide gesture.  
“Alright, that’s it, folks, thanks for coming.”  
Pol nudges his shoulder and there is this juvenile spark in his eyes again, a mixture of eagerness and motivation that settles in his deepened dimples.  
“Time for your mandatory line, boss?”  
Marc snorts a laugh and starts rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt.  
“Chop, chop!”

“Boys, may I have a word with you?”  
Everyone present stops in their motion to leave the room and stares at Roser, who snickers into the scarf she just arranged around her neck. “ _My_ boys, please.” Dani, Aleix, Pol and even Julia leave the kitchen through the backdoor, while Alex and Marc trod back to the table towards their mother.  
Roser takes a seat again and stares up at them. Sometimes the resemblance between her sons strikes her like a bolt of lightning. The high forehead, the strong jawline, the dark eyes (Marc’s a shade darker than Alex’s) and the full lips they inherited from her.  
She clicks her tongue.  
“I took the liberty to apply for a spot at next weekend TV cooking contest in your names.”  
She takes the silence – of surprise? Shock even? – as a sign to continue.  
“I activated some old contacts and reminded them how well you two were received there on a regular basis. You both won their multiple times over the last few years and they were pretty happy to accept you as a team, after I called in a few favours. It’s a great way to gain some popularity and show your skill. You’ll have to compete against two other teams this time, but I’m sure, you’ll do great.”  
“No pressure then…”  
It’s Marc’s only comment before he leaves the kitchen.  
Roser can tell, that he’s more agitated that he himself didn’t come up with that idea than her interfering with his business. She sees it in Alex’s shrug, before her youngster leans down and kisses her cheek.  
“Thanks, mama. It’s a brilliant idea. He’ll come around.”  
“Of course, he will. Just make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone in the process.”  
Alex laughs, winks and leaves the kitchen through the wooden swinging door. He has work to do. 

Roser puts her head in her hand for a moment and stares at the polished table surface.  
She worries about them. _Of course you do, you’re their mother, it’s your damn job_ , she scolds herself and frowns at the tiny scratches carved into the wood.  
Something inside her guts tells her, that this isn’t over yet…  
Before she can follow the thread of this sensation and reach the core of this unsettling feeling spreading in her stomach, the backdoor opens and Julia’s head appears. He grins at her mischievously and never was the resemblance between him and Marc more distinctive.  
“Your carriage is ready, Madame, time for a date?”  
“A date?” Roser echoes without thinking about it twice. Her husband winks and reaches for her hand. She gets up and lets him lead her outside.  
“A date. You, me, take-away food and” he reaches inside his jacket and brings a bottle of red wine to light, meeting Roser’s high laughter.  
“You’re unbelievable. Did you just steal from _our own children_?!”  
Julia clasps a hand in front of her mouth to drown out the shout and then covers her lips with his own in a tender kiss, when the laughter turns into a soft giggling noise.  
“Shush, wife. They can handle it. Let’s just have a normal date night, alright?”  
_More than alright._  
She nods and links their arms, as they stroll down the sidewalk towards their car. 

Alex rummages through some receipts from wine deliveries, when there is a soft knock at the front door, followed by the old wood creaking and muffled steps on the doormat.  
“Sorry, we’re closed.” He says over his shoulder without getting up and curses Aleix for not locking the door thoroughly.  
“Scusi, we just wanted to greet our new neighbours.”  
Alex jumps to his feet at the distinctively Italian accent and promptly hits his head against the wooden bar counter. With a loud groan he spins around, blinks away the stars in front of his vision and finds himself staring at the bluest pair of eyes, he’s ever seen. They look like the surface of a thawing ice floe, frost covered ocean and trickling of the cleanest water imaginable.  
_No newspaper picture could do them justice. Ever._

They render Alex word- and voiceless for a few seconds, before he gulps, one hand still firmly clutched against his throbbing skull. Then he takes in the picture in front of him. He averts his eyes from the grey-blue ponds staring at him with some force and eyes the two men standing in his restaurant with reluctant interest.  
The blonde smiles at him and frowns at Alex’s pained expression, while the other one observes the whole dining space like a hawk. There’s an air of well hid ignorance in the way he stares up at the suspended ceiling and mirrored surface behind the bar – Alex sees him check the bottle labels and can’t help a certain defensiveness and pride settle in his clenching teeth.  
He’s clearly the older one, maybe in his late thirties, but they share the same energy, facial features and their relation is even more plainly visible in real life than on the flyer.  
The younger one keeps staring at Alex and seemingly ignores the strange atmosphere, because he lifts a hand to shake Alex’s.  
“Hey, I’m Luca. This is my half-brother Valentino. We bought the building across the street and are currently doing some much needed renovations. You probably heard, sorry for the noise and the dirt. I tried to tell the workers, they should at least keep the streets clear and tidy, but” a non-committal shrug and apologetic grin. “My Polish is a little rusty.”  
_He’s like a whirlwind, but with warm hands_ , Alex thinks and gulps. _God damn it, how do I get him out of here, before Ma-_  
“What the hell?!”  
_Marc gets here… well, fuck me._

Alex pulls at the strands of hair at the back of his head so the pain keeps him from saying it aloud and watches his brother bulldozing his way through the dining room and planting himself in front of the blonde – he doesn’t even reach up to his shoulder, even on tiptoes.  
If Marc’s eyes could spit acid, Luca Marini would be reduced to a pile of smouldering bones in an instant.  
“Get. Out.”

Alex has no idea, what and why he does it, but he takes a step in Marc’s direction and places a careful hand on his shoulder.  
“Marc, this is Luca and his older brother Valentino.”  
“I know, who they are and I want them gone even more now.”  
Luca cocks his head. The movement changes the angle to the window and the bright sun casts a platinum hue onto his light hair. _He looks like a pup with a halo._  
“You don’t seem to like us. Which is kind of weird, because we don’t even know each other.”  
He reaches out to shake Marc’s hand, too, and realises his mistake a millisecond before Marc stares up at him with even more resentment and aversion carved into his features.  
Alex knows, Marc would spit at the Italians feet if he didn’t like the wooden panels as much as he does. 

It’s Valentino, who breaks up the stare-off by simply taking his little brother’s place.  
“Hey, Bambino, calm do-“  
“Don’t call me that, for fuck’s sake. You stole from me!”  
“I did what? You haven’t bought the fish, so I couldn’t steal it, even if I wanted to…”  
“So you admit, that you would want to!”  
_Wait, what?_  
Alex frowns and as he looks up he sees his exact expression mirrored on Luca’s face. His mouth is slightly agape and he keeps his gaze fixed on his brother, who snorts an ironic laugh into Marc’s face. Valentino is smaller than Luca, but still taller than Marc and broader in stature and certainly more confident. He _knows_ his smile is aggressive and aggravating and he still shows it on purpose just to rile Marc up even more.  
Things happen pretty fast, when Marc presses a pointed index-finger into the Italians chest and Valentino slaps it aside.  
“Get out of my face, asshole.”  
“Don’t touch me, idiot.”  
Luca and Alex react in a very irritating unison, when they reach for their brothers’ arms and hold them back, before things can truly escalade. _Thank God, we’re the taller, younger ones. I’d like to see this scenario the other way around._  
It’s childish and stupid, how Marc struggles to get free and growls like a wild tiger in its cage.  
“Marc, come on. Leave it.”  
“Vale, let’s go. He’s not worth it.”  
_He? Not ‘them’?_  
Alex frowns and exchanges a quick glance with Luca over the top of Marc’s still fuming head. There is a small, almost apologetic smile spreading on thin lips and the bright sun sharpens his jawline even more. The smile in combination with tiny scares from acne long gone and healed off give him a juvenile and yet mature aura. Maybe it’s because he has his arm still firmly wrapped around Valentino’s waist to keep him from doing anything stupid.  
Alex nods at him and returns the apologetic smile. He’s extremely embarrassed by his brother’s behaviour. 

He declares his disappointment by pinching Marc’s side as hard as he can, when he dares to open his mouth.  
A high-pitched shriek pre-empts any more indignities from following the departing Italians. 

Not until the door falls shut behind them and Alex watches them cross the street – Luca letting go of Valentino and insistently talking in his direction, pointed fingers and head shaking ensued – he lets go of his own brother and takes a deep breath.  
Marc stares at him in a mixture of shock and pure wrath.  
“How could you even let them in?! Why wasn’t the door locked?!”  
“Aleix must have forgotten it.”  
“That does it. I’m firing him.”  
“MARC!”  
He can’t help it, he does mirror Marc’s anger. Lighter and less aggressive, but he’s still done with all of this.  
“Please just calm down.”  
“They came here to survey us! To see the menu and steal ideas. You _do_ realise that, right?”  
Alex closes his mouth again and his shoulders slump. He remembers Valentino looking around the dining room and at the bottles.  
His silence is enough for Marc to groan in frustration. 

“My God, Alex, I didn’t think you could be so naïve and dewy-eyed.”  
The insult stings more than Alex expected it to and he supresses a sniffle. _Fuck._  
Marc wipes his eyes and turns around.  
“I need time to think. Don’t expect me home tonight.” He grabs his jacket and heads towards the kitchen. “And please lock the door, when you leave. We can’t afford being robbed on top of everything else, I’m sure even _you_ get that.” 

Alex huffs and stares at his feet, when he hears the backdoor falling shut. It hurts even worse than the back of his head he hit earlier.  
He bows down to the fridge and grabs a package of ice. _At least I can do something against one of the two_ , he thinks and presses the cold plastic against his head until the numbness spreads in his skull.  
He flops down against the bar counter and groans in frustration. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the usual subjects, ILYSM! <3 <3

**Author's Note:**

> What do you think? ;D 
> 
> [I'm **charonaraccoon** on tumblr.]


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